Seeing Red
by Morello
Summary: Reno provokes Rude. Reno/Rude unrequited? Not graphic. Rude's POV.


**Seeing Red**

Reno is all kinds of provocative when he wants to be, and tonight he surely wants to be. I know he's trying to help – that's what this is. He's looking to give me what he thinks I need after yet another disastrous date with a pretty civilian who split as soon as she heard the word _Turk_ – and who can blame her, really? _It's no kind of life being with one of us, unless you are one of us._ Reno's telling me that right now, hoping I'll crack and we can take it outside and fight. He thinks if he can get me to the point where I throw a couple of punches his way I'll feel better and we can go home, sober up - everything back to how it should be.

"Seriously? Chick like that? You'd never see her, and she'd be moaning about it every fuckin' time you did get together, yeah? She's high maintenance, man – I know the kind. Anyway – not like she was _that _hot."

I just look at him, because she was beautiful and he knows it.

"Okay," he admits after a pause. "She _was_ that hot. But so are hundreds of other girls, right? Thousands. And she was most likely dumb as all fuck."

"She's a philosophy major with straight As."

"Yeah – well – you don't want that shit! Like, she's psychoanalysing you when you're in the sack –"

"_Philosophy_, not psychology."

"Same difference. 'I think too much, therefore I'm fucked'. Or not, in this case. C'mon, Rude – you saw her, what, four times? And you never even got past walking her home?"

"Unlike you, I'm not just looking for a quick fuck," I tell him, trying not to let the frustration show. He's too damn good at winding me up like this – I know he's trying to make me angry, but I can't help falling for it every time. Stupidly, I try to explain: "I wanted it to go somewhere."

"_Go somewhere_?" Reno mocks. "When're you gonna realise that all that kinda shit is a dead end? Meet 'em, fuck 'em, _do not_ tell them you're a goddamned Turk unless they're the type who gets off on that – move on."

"And how is that not a dead end?"

"You're kidding me, right? It don't got no end. Just a whole lotta different alleys…" Reno sniggers into his drink, and it's working – I really want to punch that stupid smirk off his face. He looks up at me, sly-eyed, and I can see that he knows exactly how far he's pushed me, and how far there is to go.

But I can't do this – not again. I get up and put on my jacket, and he's on his feet too, but he's not laughing any more. "Where're you going, man?"

"Home."

"But – you can't. It's not even midnight. One fucking night off a week! Rude –"

I take off the glasses, and look him in the eye so he can see that I mean it when I tell him, "I'm going home. We both know how this always goes from here, and if it does, this time, you're gonna get hurt."

He stares at me for a heartbeat and his expression is a complex mix of emotions that I really don't want to begin to sort through. Then he smiles in the way I hate – the smile I see sometimes at work when we're on a job he'd give more than he'd ever admit _not_ to be on; a grim, hard-edged smile that means _yeah, it sucks, but we're still getting this done_ – and he knows exactly what he's doing when he shrugs and says, "All right, Partner. If that's what you want. But give me Professor Frigid's number before you go, huh? Bet you a hundred gil _I_ can warm her up, yo."

And I see red, totally lose it, just like he knows I will, and I punch him so hard he goes flying backwards and crashes into the bar, knocking into surprised people and a couple of barstools on the way. I leave him there and walk out into the night.

Thing is, Shelly is a really nice girl. I haven't felt like things could work out with any girl since Chelsea, until now… But when I told her what I do – what I _am_ – she froze for a second, and then there it was – the look. With her, it wasn't even fear, just… disappointment.

Behind me there's a commotion in the street: yelling, things breaking. Reno. I don't want to look, but I turn around anyway, and – yeah – he's in a fight with four guys, and there's already a lot of blood. I tell myself I should leave him to it – bastard deserves it – but there's blood running down his forehead into his eyes, and he's lost his goggles – the ones he's worn practically non-stop ever since he got his pilot's licence - and maybe I shouldn't have punched him so hard…

I walk back and join the fight. Yeah, on his side, although the alternative crosses my mind.

When it's over I find the goggles on the ground, one lens smashed, but repairable. I pick them up in one hand and drag Reno to his feet with the other. He's a mess of blood and bruises, and I can't tell whether his grogginess is caused by alcohol or concussion, so I play it safe, pull him into a side street before anyone from the bar comes to help their out-for-the-count friends, prop him against the wall, and make him take a potion. He swallows it, drags his sleeve across his eyes to wipe the blood away, and says, "Thanks, man." He hesitates before adding, "Didn't think you'd come back."

"What the hell did you do to piss _them_ off?" I ask him.

"Seems I spilled their drinks on my journey to the bar."

"Hm."

He touches a finger to his split and swelling bottom lip, and I wonder whether that was my handiwork. After a moment he pushes off the wall, and starts walking. I can tell by the unusual stiffness in his limbs that he's hurting, but he'll keep moving and loosen up like he always does after a good fight.

It takes him a couple of blocks before he runs one hand through sticky red hair and exclaims, "Oh man! I lost –"

I hold out the goggles and he takes them with a bright smile that's the opposite of the one he gave me earlier, right before I hit him, and I discover that my anger has gone.

We're nearly back at the ShinRa building when he says, "You know, I didn't mean –"

"Yeah, I know." I think about leaving it at that, but I need to say something – to break this pattern – so I begin, "I just don't get it."

"What?"

"Why you have to get involved. Like with Chelsea. It's not your business, so why -?"

Reno's shoulders hunch and I can tell he's embarrassed. "I know it's not my business. I know. But – can't you see, it's not gonna work? You say you want it to go somewhere, but where can it go? And all these – these unavailable types you pick. Like, with Chelsea –" He stops, and looks away.

I should leave it, but I can't. "What about Chelsea?"

"You knew, pretty much from the start, didn't you? That she was with Avalanche?"

Did I? I'm about to deny it, but he's right. He's right. He glances at me. "When did you know?"

"All right," I admit, "yeah. I guessed right after I met her. It was too convenient. The guy I saved her from was too easy to run off. And then she kept me talking until I asked her out. I thought it was a setup, but I didn't want to believe it, you know?"

Reno nods, fiercely. "Thought so. So why carry on? An' don't tell me it was about the intel, because – no."

"No. I liked her. I really liked her. I wanted –"

"What?" Reno asks, attempting a mocking tone that somehow falls flat, "_Love_?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Why not? Being a Turk doesn't mean you can't love someone, does it?"

Reno doesn't answer that. "But you knew it couldn't work," he says. "And with this one – this Shelly – you _knew_ that she wouldn't want to see you again once you told her what you do. So why put yourself through it? You're kidding yourself if you think it's ever gonna be any different."

"It's better than what you do. Meaningless one-night stands."

He looks at me. "Least they are what they are. No one's fooling anyone."

"Bullshit. You telling me you don't feed them any line to get them into bed?"

"No," he says, surprised. "I don't lie. I go with the ones who tell me that it's what they want, too. I'm not about to lose any sleep over it if they lie to me – or to themselves, yo!"

"And you've never been tempted to see any of those girls again? Not once?"

"Couple of times. But never for more than a few dates. Anyway they weren't all -"

I wait, but he doesn't say anything else until I prompt him. "Weren't all what?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. Nothing. They weren't all that, anyhow. Not like -" He looks at the sky – pollution low tonight, and a few hazy stars visible. "Man!" he exclaims, and I have no idea what he's talking about, but that's nothing new.

Reno is often infuriating, but he's the one person I can talk to. Even with Chelsea I'd struggle to find things to say. Shelly too. Both of them were good at keeping the conversation going, but when there were silences, they felt awkward. With Reno, it doesn't matter. We talk, or we don't. Sometimes he just rambles and I'm hardly listening; sometimes his words are so precisely, deliberately targeted that he presses every one of my buttons like he did back at the bar; sometimes he gives surprisingly good advice.

"So – you think there's no point even trying?" I ask him, as we turn into a side street near the station. "You really think Turks can't love anyone?"

"Never said that. Only that it won't work out."

"That's – pessimistic."

"Realistic." When he grimaces the split in his lower lip starts to bleed again. He runs his tongue over it. I shouldn't have hit him so hard. He misunderstands my expression, and pats me on the back. "Cheer up, Partner," he says. "You've still got me!"

"Yeah – thanks. That's –" He lunges towards me, and before I even have time to realise what he's doing his lips are pressed against mine, rough chapped skin and the tang of beer, cigarettes and blood. Then he's walking again, eyes on the ShinRa building up ahead as though nothing happened – so much as though nothing happened that I'm already beginning to wonder whether I imagined it. But my nerves are thrumming with the memory of that pressure, and the taste of blood is sharp.

I stand there and he walks ahead. Ten years we've been working together now, and every time I think I've got him figured out, he does something crazy and shows me I'm wrong. He doesn't look back, hands in his pockets, all the stiffness from the fight already gone out of him, his pace an easy lope as though he hasn't got a care in the world. But I remember his bleak smile before I hit him, and the bright one when I gave him the goggles, and I know that's not true. If he didn't care, he wouldn't bother to wind me up until I crack. But what the hell did he mean by that kiss? Anything? Nothing? And what am I supposed to do about this latest provocation?

I see him suddenly illuminated as the lobby doors open – his hair a brilliant flash of red – and then the doors close behind him. By the time I reach the lobby he's vanished, and when I pass his apartment on my way to my own it's silent, and the door is closed.

The next day, in the office, he perches on the edge of my desk, runs a hand through his hair, fumbles in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "Jeez! How much did I drink last night?" he asks, lighting up, meeting my eyes with an edgy smile. He turns his head away, exhaling smoke, as he adds, "Don't remember much. You hit me. I was being a dick, yeah?"

I hesitate, but he doesn't turn around, and although I know him well enough to know that he's lying and he remembers everything as clearly as I do, I give him the answer I guess he wants. "Yeah."

His shoulders slump or relax, I can't tell, and he turns to look at me with a grin that anyone else would read as careless, and says, "Same time next week, then?"

"Yeah," I reply, and his grin stays put, but his eyes change, and _now_ it's careless, now that we can both pretend that things are back how they were. He pushes off my desk and meanders over to his own, flicks through a file he finds lying there and stretches. "Hope we're out of the office today. Too hot in here," he says. "Or is that just me?"

I ignore him, like I'm supposed to, and get on with work. Later, when he's finally settled, inputting data at a rate that always amazes me given that he only uses two fingers to type, I glance across at him. Remnants of the events of last night are a faint bruise on his right cheekbone that blurs the hard curve of the tattoo there, and the dark red line where his lower lip split, already almost healed. I look back at my computer screen, putting aside the memory of dry lips against mine, the bitterness of smoke and alcohol, the sharp taint of blood.


End file.
